


Night Lights

by LudicrousLegacy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LudicrousLegacy/pseuds/LudicrousLegacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can take the Altus out of Tevinter, but you can't take the Tevinter out of the Altus. Dorian learns the hard way that no matter how hard you try to outrun your past, eventually, when you stop running, it won't be far behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inatrice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inatrice/gifts).



The first time it happens, he’s sixteen.

He’s rolled over onto his back, a lazy smile on his face as he watches Neriol get dressed. “That was amazing,” he tells him softly, almost reverently. “I…I had no idea such pleasure existed!”

Neriol smiles faintly at him, though the expression is as far from his eyes as his class is from Dorian’s as he begins to dress. “I’m glad I could please you, Master Dorian.” He says. He finishes tugging on his tunic and adjusts the collar of his shirt, bowing at the waist. “Now if there isn’t anything else, I’d best be getting back to the kitchens.”

Dorian’s heart stills. “There’s no need to be so formal, Neriol,” he says slowly, his smile fading fast, the last lingering happiness of his pleasure flitting away like dust, “and you don’t have to leave. I don’t mind if you spend the night.”

Neriol looks at him carefully, even the pretense of a smile dropped now, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He says slowly, as though speaking to a child. “I will be missed in the kitchens, and we start baking the morning’s bread in a half hour. If you no longer require my services, I shall take my leave.”

Dorian blinks twice, confused. “Neriol?” He whispers. Just that and nothing else. A silent plea.

For a moment, it looks as though he wants to say something. His mouth is open, and his eyes are kind. But it passes just as quickly as it came, and Neriol turns on his heel. He’s out the door before the first of Dorian’s tears escapes his eyes.

In the morning, when Dorian comes down to breakfast, Neriol is gone. Dorian doesn’t know enough of the world to think it could have been anything but his own choice.

*

The second time, he’s very nearly eighteen.

He hears the slaves’ morning bell, but he ignores it as he always does, furrowing back into his covers. He’s about to drift back to sleep when a shuffling noise from the other side of the bed makes him look up tiredly, pushing his fringe out of his eyes to frown at the cause.

Thaetry? Thaery? _Theater_? He can’t remember his name, but he can certainly remember his mouth. He would be a lot more disgruntled at seeing him still in his bed if it weren’t for the way his eyes are glowing eerily in the dim of the room. Dorian starts, rolling onto his back and shooting into a sit-up as fast as his sleep-befuddled state will allow. “Maker’s hairy ballsack, what’s wrong with your eyes?”

The slave blinks, then casts his gaze down. “My apologies, Master Dorian,” he says, looking abashed. “They reflect the light. It’s an elf thing.”

Dorian grunts, turning back onto his stomach. He’s surprised he hasn’t noticed it before. Satisfied that he’s not about to be devoured by a desire demon, he’s bored again already. “Well. The bell’s just gone. I think you’re going to be late for work if you don’t get a move on.”

The slave hesitates. One hand is poised as though about to reach out, to touch him, and Dorian raises an eyebrow at him until he shrinks back in fear. “Have I displeased you, Master?” He asks, almost sadly.

Dorian’s stomach turns. “No.” He says shortly. “But you have work to do and I have sleep to catch up on. It’s your fault I was up all night anyway so if you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep. I have to be up soon as well.” He turns his face to the other side, signifying the end of the conversation, and though he can’t see his face he can practically feel the disappointment and hurt radiating from the elf behind him.

“Very well,” it comes as a whisper, not even full-bodied, but soft and broken, “I shall come back tonight then, as per your request. Please sleep well, Master Dorian.”

Dorian’s mind is made up before the elf even leaves the room. Elf slaves are reassigned and disappear all the time. House Pavus won’t miss one more. He’ll speak to the slave master about it in the morning.

He lets himself fall asleep again. He doesn’t even think of Neriol when he does.

*

The third time, he’s twenty-one.

His family amulet is gone. He doesn’t miss it.

He plunks down the gold for another ale, and the bartender swipes it up with dirty sausage fingers. Dorian drinks half of it in one go, wipes his mouth with the back of a filthy wool glove, casting his drunken gaze around the room again.

He’s looking for the signs. He knows all of them now. A hand jiggling a coin purse on the left side. The right foot tapped left to right three times in succession. A single brown hide glove hanging out of one’s back pocket. The signs of a man willing to lie with another.

For the right coin, of course. And luckily, Dorian now has plenty of that.

He squints at one of the young men by the fire. Slim, dainty, shaggy hair that covers his eyes and ears both. He has a coin purse hanging on the left side of his belt, but has made no move to touch it yet. Dorian waits until he has his attention, locks eyes on him and lifts his eyebrows. The youth blinks at him, then smiles widely, and casually reaches for his coin pouch and taps at it lightly with his fingers, so it clinks merrily.

Dorian nods. He abandons the rest of his ale, gathers his things and makes for the staircase in the corner. He climbs them two at a time, not bothering to check behind him to see if the boy has followed; he knows he will have. He reaches his room, opens the door, and slips inside, leaving it slightly ajar.

The boy slips in not a minute later, laughing merrily. “You’re an eager one,” he says cheerfully. “Right then, let’s see your coin. And when that’s done, let’s see your cock!” He grins at his own little joke, but Dorian is not amused. He shoves a sovereign at him. The boy clicks his tongue and whistles, pocketing the coin happily and sliding gracefully to his knees.

Dorian only notices when the boy’s nose is pressed to his pubic bone and his fingers are tangled in his hair. Pointed ears.

He almost wants to laugh. He should have known.

He shoves him away almost roughly as soon as he comes. He tucks himself back into his pants, almost awkwardly, as the boy wipes his mouth and gets to his feet. “Cheers, bruv.” The elf says, winking at him. “I’ll be off. You’re obviously not the cuddling sort so I’ll be gone. I’m here every night if you plan on sticking around.”

The minute he leaves, Dorian knows he can’t stay either.

It doesn’t matter that it’s the middle of the night. He leaves. He doesn’t look back.

*

He jolts awake, panting, feeling like a man on the verge of drowning.

He clutches his chest, ragged breaths tearing from a throat on fire. The blankets bunched up at his waist are stifling, yet his body is covered in gooseflesh. He wants to tear his own skin off. He feels hot and cold and his entire body feels weighed down by liquid lead.

“Dorian?” His head snaps to the side, and Aedan is there, his beloved Aedan, sleepy and beautiful, his forehead creased in a frown, his sweet mouth puckered, looking up at him with slow-blinking eyes.

Dorian wets his lips. They’re glowing. His eyes are glowing.

He tries to form words, but his lips are trembling. He runs a hand through his hair, closes his eyes, as Aedan sits up and wraps an arm around him. “Ma sa’lath?” He murmurs, concerned.

“Thayet.” Dorian manages to choke out. “His name was Thayet.”

Aedan looks confused, and Dorian suddenly feels quite ill. “I’m a bad man, amatus.” He says, passing a hand over his face, looking away. “I am a terrible man.”

Aedan says nothing for a while, simply rubbing Dorian’s back. “No.” He says finally. “You are one of the best men I know.” He reaches out, cups Dorian’s cheek, turns him to face him. “You are an incredible man.”

Dorian shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he says, his voice desperate, “I’ve done terrible things.”

“We all have.” Aedan says quietly. “I have. You have. All of us, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra. We have all done terrible things.” He leans in, kisses Dorian softly. “We do what we have to do to survive. Just the fact that we have regrets, that we know the wrong in the things we’ve done, shows us that we’re not so bad after all.”

Dorian gulps, his voice strained. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t need to.” Aedan shrugs. “You can tell me. I would listen to anything you said. But it doesn’t change anything, Dorian. I know you. I know what you are.”

Dorian’s face crumbles. He bends his head and kisses his lover, passionately, desperately, clinging to him. “I love you, Aedan,” he whispers, and suddenly he can breathe again. “I love you.”

Aedan’s eyes widen, but he holds Dorian close to him, stroking his back. “I know, Dorian,” he says softly, “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Belated Valentine's Day gift for my wife, the lovely inatrice, featuring her amazing Inquisitor, Aedan.


End file.
